urban pain

empty eyes he had
staring at me
seeing something or someone else.
I passed him by quietly,

thinking myself unnoticed.
but he did
and I sensed it with a pang of guilt,
a flood of sorrow over the futility.

the years have left their mark on him,
hunched, worn,
listlessness shorn of hope.
no one cared and he knew it.

would I dare risk caring?
could I bear the burden?
it would mean entering his pain,
and forgetting about my own.

and then I recognized that look.
his eyes mirrored my own.
and I could sense him asking
the same questions about me.

19 February 2011 by Glen Alan Woods

unknown but not forgotten

he whispered to the wind
and no one answered.
the rain fell all about
like soldiers slain.

the lightning dove for cover
on the rooftops.
he huddled in the
alcove just below.

red bricks with black graffiti
marked the violence;
he gripped his cloak and
closed his eyes to pain.

when morning came they found
him in the doorway,
his purple heart and Bible
all he owned.

they knew not whence he came
or how he'd fallen.
but all the same they wept
at his estate.

for in the midst of
chic urban wealth
there lay a soldier
slain by heartbreak.

12 March 2009 by Glen Alan Woods

when we are most silent

yearning against the constraints,
silence leans into the wind.
it waits for the time of its appearing;
it seeks to hasten the moment.
the clattering beer can blows here and there
down the sparsely occupied street.
chimes sing on the porch
of the apartment tower standing guard,
a sentry keeping watch over the city street.

silence dances in the spaces
between the ambient sounds.
distant cars and trucks honk their horns
and race their engines.
the clatter of garbage cans alert the dog.
either a possum or a prowler, not sure which is worse.
a scream in the night.
probably another drug deal gone bad.

silence meditates in the dark watches of the night.
an invitation to the holy. An escape from worldly care.
the siren hints at the margin of awareness. silence quiets the heart.
the turf war excalates into multiple shots fired. silence cries.
somewhere into darkest alleyways, reloading occurs again. why?

silence invites us into the holy place,
the turf where graffiti loses its meaning.
into the quiet, silence leads,
knowing that only there can we listen truly.
and so we sit and listen;
we stay our speech and wait quietly.
flickering city lights grow distant as we wait upon the Lord.
we talk less and listen more.
despite our many words,

we hear best when we are most silent.

29 January 2009 by Glen Alan Woods

Where are the fathers?

graffiti provokes the enemy,
marking territory,
staking claims.

bloods, crips, 13th st, et al.

markings recognized and feared.
war is on.

92nd street shooting in the midst of Lents Park.
Rockwood gangland drivebys.
North Portland retaliation.

Kids, all. Armed and dangerous.
Max train movement of members.

Plenty of chalk to outline the night's take of bodies.
Plenty of talk to give lip service to solutions.

Where are the fathers?

24 January 2009 by Glen Alan Woods

prove it

a thin wisp of smoke lifts from the discarded cigarette,
crushed but not snuffed out; another life thrown away.

buildings rise high, a testament to wealth;
their alcoves greet the homeless in the night,

until they are evicted,
made to bring cardboard and cloak out into the open.

grafitti tags mark the boundaries of violence
far below the penthouses of the affluent.

yet, high above from the 30th floor restaurant,
the city lights glitter as if unaware of the heartbreak.

meth labs in southeast,
gangland warfare in the north and in east county,
prostitution row on 82nd,
beggars lining every street corner within a forty mile radius.

and no one seems to care.
business as usual.
treat the symptoms, but not the root.
next generation lepers, kicked to the curb.

children:

without dads.
without purpose.
without mentors.
without hope.

does anyone care?
prove it.

be the dad.
give a purpose.
be a mentor.
inspire hope.

Memories of Newberg

the cloud of steam rises continuously,
a tribute to the stench of the pulp mill,
as if even the vented vapor could not delay flight.

a twin engine fixed wing plane joins the steam over
the lazy patchwork of houses, farmland and small shops.
a hot air balloon lifts tourists in the distance.

cars crawl east and west through a bottle neck of unfortunate
road planning conceived before the first stop light was installed--
oh, what an event that was! the fanfare! the gossip!

telltale vestiges of suburban sprawl begin to take their toll with
the rise of big ugly square houses, super-sized box stores and
ubiquitous fast food pads. Consumerism is laying waste to dying

charm, but not completely, as in the hills which cradle its northeast
borders, trees still rise up in the fading morning mist, surely
preserving the trails I once hiked as a boy.

the Willamette River carves out its path in the south of the city,
no more swimmable or potable now, than thirty years ago,
but perfect for the annual summer boat races.

7 April 2007 by Glen Alan Woods

In Shadows

Last light is forgotten,
Cast in shadows of gray fog.
Muted horns and distant sirens,
Chase one shameless vagrant car.

Thin wisps of chimney smoke
Rise slowly across the town.
Alley cats and vagabonds
Ply their trades before the dawn.

By Glen Alan Woods, December 1, 2006